Sloppy Seconds: The Tucker Max Leftovers (44 page)

I had no idea porn had another purpose. I didn’t even think it was weird at all that when I lost my virginity on my 16th birthday, I had NEVER masturbated. It wasn’t until more than a year later, when I was 17, that I popped my hand cherry. And that happened just by chance.

I was hanging out with a girl in my basement who evidently had one of those dads who loved her and paid attention to her, because she wouldn’t sleep with me or give head. Fucking great. Now what? She started to rub her hand up and down my cock. I liked it a lot, and then—to my mild shock—I came all over her. She was not pleased. The best part was that this only pissed her off because she “had just washed that shirt.” Ah, Kentucky.

So the next day I call her to come over but she is busy or whatever. Then it dawns on me: that thing she did, with her hand…I could do that myself. I have hands. I can rub one up and down too. So I try it.

It worked! And in quite the revelation, I discover that I am even better at it than she was. I’m a fucking natural!

So I do it again.

And lo and behold, it works again! Just as good as the last time! This whole masturbation thing is fucking great. Why has everyone been so down on it?

I go again. And then one more time. You know, for luck.

Later that night, I pulled out one of my uncle’s
Hustler
magazines. It was like looking at it for the first time all over again. That’s when I realized: porn isn’t a study guide. It’s a masturbatory aid! By the time I was done, I was exhausted, and that magazine looked like someone had dropped it in a swimming pool.

The well-adjusted girl with appropriate sexual boundaries called me the next day:

Girl “Hey, can I come over?”

Tucker “Do you want to have sex?”

Girl “No—I told you, I don’t want to have sex until college.”

Tucker “Will you go down on me?”

Girl “No, I don’t like that. But we can, you know, do the other thing. But you need to be more careful this time, like where it goes.”

Tucker “Nah, just forget it. I’ve…found someone better.”

AMBI-JERK-STROUS

About three months after I learned how to jack off, a catastrophe happened: I tore my rotator cuff, and had to have my right arm immobilized and in a sling for three months.

Granted, this effectively ended any hopes that my baseball career would extend past high school. I played catcher and had a really good arm*, but since I couldn’t hit a fucking breaking ball to save my life, I wasn’t really banking on the athletic route anyway. No, this was such a disaster because it meant I couldn’t use my right arm for anything for three months.

ANYTHING.

I lasted about a week without jacking off before I was ready to go insane. Literally insane. I had to get these stored up loads out of me. I took the sling off and tried to jack it anyway. I would have fought through the intense pain if I had been able to cum, but sadly, stabbing, searing, tearing pain in your shoulder inhibits erections.

I didn’t know what to do, I really didn’t. I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time, I was still only 17, and not good enough with women yet that I had a stable of booty calls in the wings. It was up to me, and I was going crazy. Then it hit me:

I HAVE TWO HANDS!!! What about my left?

I distinctly remember looking down at my left, like it wasn’t part of my body, and wondering if he was really ready to come off the bench, without warming up, and take the game winning shot.

But without other options, I put him in. It was different, rocky and rough at times, but effective. With some more reps, he actually started to do a good job.

I became officially ambi-jerk-strous.

Leftie eventually became like Lou Gehrig—once he got in, he never went out. I pinch-hit with my right every now and then, but 90% of the time, I stay with my starter.

And that is why, even to this day, I masturbate with my left hand, even though I’m right handed. You can even see the difference in my physiology: My left forearm is slightly bigger than my right.

Footnotes

*Here’s an example of how good my arm was at 15:

This one kid would always take big leads off second, then walk back after the pitch with his head down. I knew if I came up throwing I wouldn’t get him; he’d either be tipped off by the coaches yelling or the second baseman running to cover the bag. I had a good arm, but not good enough to get him if he was trying to get back. I had to figure out another way to get him.

When he got a lead off double, I called a conference at the mound, and told the second baseman to wait until the pitch crossed the plate, then just casually walk over to the bag, that the throw was coming down, but to act like it wasn’t. I told the pitcher to put the ball well outside, and that on the return throw, to act like he was going to catch it, but let it go through to the second baseman.

He put the pitch way off the plate, and I kinda slid a bit for the ball, staying on my knees and pausing after I caught it, showing the ball in my hand to the runner. The kid took an extra step towards third, saw I had the ball, and, because I stayed on my knees, he put his head down and just started casually walking back towards second. Staying on my knees, I slowly pulled the ball back like I was just going to throw it to pitcher, then at the last second, whipped it as hard as I could, still from my knees, towards second base. The pitcher played it perfectly, putting his glove up two feet away from the ball, but still acting like he was going to catch it. The second baseman was only a few feet off the bag by now, and was perfectly nonchalant, pretending like nothing was happening. The runner was so confused when the ball snapped into the second baseman’s glove and he got tagged out.

When people realized what had happened, the crowd (just parents and girlfriends, mainly) erupted. I had picked off a base runner, from my knees, at second base. The home plate ump actually had to explain to the opposing coach what happened; he’d missed my throw and didn’t believe it at first.

I immediately became a legend; not one single person attempted to steal a base on me the rest of the season. Coaches would scream at their players if they took even a two-step lead on me, on any base. Everyone ignored all the tricks I had to pull to pick the guy off, they just knew I picked a dude off at second from my knees, so ipso facto, I must have the greatest arm in the history of Babe Ruth catchers.

And yes, you are correct: I am grown man and just wrote a 500-word footnote about a completely meaningless athletic feat I accomplished almost 20 years ago, in a teenager’s baseball league.

Yeah, well fuck you. You write multiple best sellers that create a new literary genre, sell millions of copies, and inspire a movie—all before you’re 35—and you can earn the privilege to obnoxiously indulge yourself about whatever you want as well.

THE MARLEY STORIES

Occurred, October 2002

When I first moved to Chicago in 2002 to write full time, I lived with a friend of mine, TheRoommate. His brother went on a long vacation and didn’t want to board his dog, so he left him with us for a month. He was a 5-year-old yellow lab named “Marley” (they named him before that awful book
Marley and Me
came out) and these are all the funny things that happened when I was taking care of him.

[As you read these, please remember that I’d never had a dog of my own up to that point, so a lot of what I did reflects a complete lack of knowledge on how to deal with dogs. In 2005 I got my current dog, Murph, and learned everything I didn’t know then. So please don’t tell me I was walking Marley the wrong way or rewarding negative behavior or something. I know. It’s been fixed, Cesar Milan. So mind your own fucking business.]

DOGGY BASICS

The very first day Marley shows up, I get very excited and want to take him for a walk to try to meet some girls. As I head out the door, my roommate’s brother hands me a plastic bag.

Tucker “What the fuck is this for?”

Jason “It’s not all about picking up girls; you have to pick up other things too when you have a dog.”

Tucker “WHAT! I have to pick up the dog’s shit? Are you kidding? This is not happening.”

Jason “No, dude, you really have to do it. It’s the law.”

Tucker “Fine.”

I take the bag, and tell Marley:

Tucker “If you ever shit when I am walking you, I’m going to make you eat it. You’re only allowed to poop when TheRoommate walks you.”

He licks all over my face with the same tongue he uses to lick other dogs’ asses and his little doggy penis. Great, we haven’t even cuddled yet and the dog’s already gone ass-to-mouth on me. Thanks, buddy.

Not even ten minutes into the walk, my plan works and Marley and I run into two girls sitting outside a bar. They see Marley and start with the “Awww, wook at da wittle puppy!” babytalk that tells you these girls have maternal instincts and are ready to tend to your every need. Like me, Marley is a big fan of attractive young ladies, so he runs up to them and starts licking one all over her face.

Tucker “Marley! Don’t do that—you don’t know where her face has been.”

She was not as amused about this as she should have been. That line was gold.

WHY RESPONSIBILITY CAN SUCK

I left my apartment at 6pm and went to an “All You Can Drink.” Bar specials like this are paradoxes to me. They are both “A Reason To Live,” and “A Potential Way To Die.”

I remember very little about the night. Including, apparently, some girl I introduced myself to who responded with, “You don’t remember me, do you?” If that happens, your best bet is to just walk away. Nothing you can say will save the situation, even if you offer to hook up with her again to refresh your memory.

I stumbled back to my place around 3am, and was abruptly woken at 6am by a girl enthusiastically licking my face. I grabbed her head to guide her mouth to a more appropriate place for her tongue, but she just wriggled a lot and started playfully biting my hands. What the fuck? I wondered if I brought home a Northwestern softball player. Her furry, floppy ears added to my confusion. Finally, my hung over brain realized that the girl in my bed was not a girl at all, but Marley the dog. I was way too tired to get up and walk him, so I pushed him off and passed back out.

Did you know that dogs need to use the bathroom at regular intervals, just like humans? And that these needs exist completely independent of you, and are not at all considerate of how hung over you are?

Yes, well, I knew this at the time, I just didn’t really think about the implications of making Marley hold it for 18 hours. Namely, he can’t. When I finally woke up around 1pm, he had a nice surprise for me.

OK, that’s fine, when you have to go, you have to go, right? But he took it a step farther. Not content with just relieving himself, Marley decided to make a statement, to let me know just how pissed he was.

He urinated directly on my laundry pile, creating a nice big yellow stain all over my dirty clothes. Thanks Marley, I get the message. If you’re not gonna go out, neither am I.

MARLEY GOES TO DOG PARK, HUMPS EVERYTHING

We show up the first time, I let him loose, and start a conversation with a nice looking woman. Apparently, Marley thought I had taken him to a Roman bathhouse, because he started running around aggressively humping every dog that would stand still for two seconds. Which led to a conversation that I could never have imagined myself having with another human being:

Tucker “Gosh, I’m really sorry that my dog keeps humping your dog.”

Dog owner “Oh, it’s OK. She’s fixed.”

Tucker “Yeah, so is he, but it doesn’t seem to stop him, which really confuses me. I’m trying to figure out where he gets all this testosterone. Maybe he was hanging out with Sammy Sosa, I don’t know.”

Chatting up a beautiful young lady isn’t easy when she’s trying to keep an eye on her sweet little puppy dog. It’s even harder when you have to continually stop your dog from raping her dog because he’s hornier than R. Kelly in an elementary school.

Marley does this every time we go now. The worst part is, he humps indiscriminately. Young or old, big or small, male or female—he doesn’t care. He’s like the Ricky Martin of dogs. They’re all pink on the inside to him.

Yes, there is gorgeous symbolism in this, and yes, it is perfect poetic justice that my dog does this, blah, blah, blah—shut the fuck up. All I want is to be able to talk to that cute girl with the collie without Marley humping her dog like he’s going to the electric chair.

MARLEY GOES TO BAR, FINALLY EARNS HIS KEEP

I’m not sure there is a better way to pick up women, save being famous, than by owning a dog and taking it to a bar. I don’t know if you’ve ever taken a dog into a bar, but if you haven’t, then put it at the top of your “To-Do” list. There is a bar right by my place in Chicago that allows dogs and the first time I took him with me it was like shooting skanks in a barrel. I should have figured. Marley is a super cute and friendly yellow lab; obviously they all want to pet the doggy. Every girl who saw him would come up to pet him—of course he loved the attention—and he’d welcome her by wagging his tail and licking her face and smelling her crotch. If only it were so simple.

One girl in particular adored Marley. Wanted to do nothing but pet him. She was possibly the most needy girl I’ve ever met in my life. Within the first five minutes of talking to her I knew she wanted a boyfriend, she couldn’t meet guys, she had so much love to give, etc., etc. Judging by her reaction to Marley’s non-stop sloppy kisses, this was the most action she’d gotten in quite awhile. She was virtually making out with him.

I quickly got sick of her using me (and Marley) as a metaphysical brothel for her emotions, so I let fly, “If you lost some weight, I bet guys might talk to you.” She wasn’t fat at all, so I thought she’d get the joke. She didn’t. She got mad. I don’t know if it’s possible to cry without actually shedding tears, but if you can, she definitely did. Hey, if she can’t take a joke, fuck her.